


maybe we’ll find a brand new ending

by nightcalling



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, M/M, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: He drops the rings onto Lieutenant Blake’s palm, and with that, the last of his duties is finished. He distantly registers Lieutenant Blake asking for his name, and he gives it, but it means nothing, because it’s merely one half of a whole.Blake and Schofield, is what they were known as in the Eighth, but what is Alexander without Hephaestion, Achilles without Patroclus?What is Schofield, without Blake?*Five times Schofield doesn’t say what’s on his mind, and one time he does.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 10
Kudos: 113
Collections: 2nd devons writing challenges





	maybe we’ll find a brand new ending

**Author's Note:**

> Happy _1917_ day. My original plan for today didn’t pan out, so I wrote this in its place. All dialogue is lifted directly from the script, except for the bits in the +1 segment. This was written in response to a prompt for the writing challenge in the discord, to write something based on one of two quotes at the beginning of the script. 
> 
> Title is from Adam Levine’s “Lost Stars.”

> “We have so much to say, and we shall never say it.” – Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet on the Western Front._

_One._

When Blake’s voice calls out to him, for a moment, Schofield thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Sco! Wake up! Wake up! Sco!”

The dirt blocks his tongue, and the chalk muffles his nose, but it’s not enough to stifle his breathing. He coughs, taking in life, and obeys. He can’t see Blake at all, but he knows him from the grip on his arm, from the way Blake is refusing to let go.

Schofield hears _stand up_ and _coming down_ and _keep hold of me_ , but they come in fragments and none of it makes sense. The cacophony rings in his ears like the aftermath of a landmine gone awry, and he tries to tether himself to the one thing he knows, the one thing that can keep him going—Blake.

“You’re going to have to jump!” Blake is suddenly yelling, and—maybe this is it. Maybe this is the end of the line for him. Maybe he was always meant to die with Blake as his witness.

 _You have to leave me behind_ , Schofield wants to yell back, but the dirt is still blocking his tongue. _You need to let me go._

But Blake’s voice comes again, stubborn and unrelenting, loud and true: “You need to trust me. Jump!”

And Schofield jumps—not for himself, but for Blake, so that if he falls deeper into the earth, at least Blake can finally move forward.

~

_Two._

Even the sunlight isn’t enough to suppress his anger.

“Why in God’s name did you have to choose me?” And he means, _why didn’t you leave me and save yourself? Why didn’t you let me die? Why did you choose me?_

“I didn’t know what I was picking you for.” And he knows Blake means, _I would never leave you in the darkness when I know there’s light. I would never let you die. I would always choose you._

It doesn’t help. It only makes Schofield feel bitter, and that always brings out the worst in him. “No, you didn’t. You never know. That’s your problem.”

“Alright then, go back. Nothing’s stopping you. You can go all the way bloody home if you want.” The sting is evident in the way Blake curves his lips over _bloody home_ , and Schofield is immediately irritated—by the mention of home, by the dust caked in his eyes, by himself.

“Don’t,” Schofield says, cutting Blake off. He puts the tin safely back into his pocket and glances at Blake from the corner of his eye, watching the poison of his words settle into Blake’s entire face until it seeps into his muscles.

“Look.” Blake stretches one hand out, an action that typically precedes a slew of words designed to temper the storm brewing between them. “I didn’t know what I was picking you for. I thought they were going to send us back up the line, or for food, or something. I thought it was going to be something easy, alright? I never thought it would be this.”

The poison eventually drains Blake of all confidence until he merely asks, in a slouch and a quiet voice, “So, do you want to go back?”

 _Of course I want to go back_. The thought spreads through Schofield’s mind like a disease, unwanted and debilitating and selfish. _I want to go back and bring you with me. I want us to run away and leave this place behind and let the war consume itself, because you and I deserve better than this._

They all deserve better than this.

Schofield takes in Blake’s resigned posture and the gun in his small hand, both standing by on command, then sighs. “Just fire the fucking flare.”

~

_Three._

He’s seen cherry trees before back home, down by the path that leads travelers to the docks. In springtime, the blossoms flutter playfully in the air, a companion to the children that run circles flying kites in the grass field nearby. Mothers bring baskets filled with bread and cheese and wine along for a light picnic, and fathers bring footballs and makeshift nets along for a friendly game.

It’s peaceful. The cherry trees are alive, and that’s how they should be. Not like how they are here, cut down and splintered like farm animals taken to slaughter.

“Cherries.”

Schofield looks over in time to see Blake hold a blossom delicately in his hand, like it’s something precious to the touch.

“Lamberts.” Blake’s eyes rake over the rest of the trees as they walk, and Schofield keeps his own fixed on Blake’s profile.

“They might be Dukes,” Blake continues. “Hard to tell when they aren’t in fruit.” It’s difficult to say whether he’s talking to Schofield or to himself, as if he’s convincing himself that what he’s seeing is real.

“What’s the difference?” Schofield asks, trying to pull Blake back to shore, back to the present.

“Well, people think there’s one type, but there’s lots of them. Cuthberts, Queen Annes, Montmorencys. Sweet ones, sour ones…”

It’s as if Blake is reciting a list of neighbors that he knew before the war. The Cuthberts, who lived across the street from the Blake farm, making a living selling flower bouquets. The Queen-Annes, who handled milk delivery every morning, always remembering to take the empty bottles instead of leaving them around for birds to feed on. The Montmorencys, who owned the bakery next to the market, coaxing people from all walks of life to visit and take a respite from their weary travels.

For all Schofield knows, that could be exactly what Blake is doing. He doesn’t know anything about cherries to correct him, after all. “Why on earth would you know this?”

“Mum’s got an orchard, back home. Only a few trees. This time of year, it looks like it’s been snowing, blossoms everywhere. And then in May, we have to pick them, me and Joe. Takes the whole day.” Blake’s face goes ashen the moment he finishes talking, and Schofield thinks it would be nice if there was a breed of cherries named after the Blakes. It would probably taste strong to the tongue, with a hint of tartness that’s soothing rather than unpleasant. A texture that draws you in and leaves you wanting more.

“So,” Schofield says, “these ones are all gonners?”

“Oh no, they’ll grow again when the stones rot. You’ll end up with more trees than before.” Blake perks up when he says it, and therein lies the difference between them—Blake is thinking about the people that’ll be saved by the war. Schofield is thinking about the people that are being lost to the war.

 _Don’t you know that we have more in common with these trees than you think?_ Schofield wants to ask. _And don’t you know that what sets us apart is that when we inevitably die, we’ll rot and decay and never be buried, never regrow again?_

A farmhouse comes into view. Its colors are reminiscent of a ghost house. Schofield is still watching Blake, his eyes having gone alert.

“It looks abandoned,” Blake says.

“Let’s hope so.” They should circumvent it. Go around it. Find a different way.

Blake turns those determined eyes on him, reckless and brave and foolish. “We have to make sure.”

Schofield raises his rifle, and leads the way.

~

_Four._

He’s seen too many good men bleed out to know that Blake doesn’t have long, so he does the only thing he can, and laces his fingers with Blake’s.

“Talk to me,” Blake pleads, eyes glassy with tears and desperation. “Tell me you know the way.”

“I know the way,” Schofield says. “I’m going to head south east until I hit Écoust. I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.” He memorizes every word that tumbles out of his mouth, because it’s important that Blake hears them, because they make up the last promise he’s pledging to Blake, and because Blake will no longer be there to echo them back to him.

“It’ll be dark by then,” Blake says, very faintly but still managing to sound concerned. As if he isn’t the one lying on the ground right now.

 _I love you_ , is what Schofield wants to say. “That won’t bother me,” is what Blake needs to hear. “I’ll find the Second, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your brother. Just like you, a little older—”

Blake is no longer breathing. All that remains is the wind circling around them, as if it were the reaper waiting to carry Blake’s soul away, and Schofield feels his own life fading along with it.

 _I love you._ It repeats like a refrain, a mantra, a lie in his head. _I love you, I love you, and I’m sorry, and I love you._

~

_Five._

Schofield isn’t sure what he’s less prepared for—meeting Lieutenant Joseph Blake while he’s still alive, or seeing shadows of his brother reflected in his eyes. They share the same brilliant blue, the kind that makes one hope for a better life with the final burst of courage that’s left, however big it may be.

“Tom’s here? Where is he?”

Ah, perhaps that’s what he was dreading to face. _Tom. Tom. Tom._ The one word that he vowed to never say, because he knew that if he did, he would want to own it, possess it forever.

Lieutenant Blake is a seasoned officer, so Schofield lets the sun and the wind and the silence speak for him, and waits until the truth sinks in like an ink stain.

“It was very quick,” Schofield says, another lie, after the stain becomes permanent. “I’m sorry.” _It was my fault_ , he leaves out, like a coward _. I should be hung for treason._

He takes out Blake’s rings and tries to rub the blood off of them, tries to wash his sins away, but the red stays, clinging like a parasite to the metal, as if telling him, _you will never be forgiven. You will never be forgiven, you will carry your sins to your grave, and you will never achieve atonement._

He drops the rings onto Lieutenant Blake’s palm, and with that, the last of his duties is finished. He distantly registers Lieutenant Blake asking for his name, and he gives it, but it means nothing, because it’s merely one half of a whole. _Blake and Schofield_ , is what they were known as in the Eighth, but what is Alexander without Hephaestion, Achilles without Patroclus?

What is Schofield, without Blake?

A voice is calling him. He turns his head and follows the melody, caught up in the enchantment that’s binding him. When he settles against the tree, that’s when he makes out the words, and he understands.

 _Come back to me_ , Blake is saying. _I will grant you atonement, I will share your sins, and I will forgive you._

Schofield closes his eyes, and obeys.

~

_+1_

When Will opens his eyes, it’s an hour before daybreak.

He’s been having recurring dreams of soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, and cheeks rosier than any blush he’s ever seen. They’re always accompanied by the taste of cherries in his mouth, of the sun on his face, of a small hand in his.

Sometimes, the hand pulls him up. Other times, it’s slotted beneath his fingers, and the warmth is fading fast, and there’s something else plastering them together, something dark and crimson and viscous, something that’s a lot like—

And that’s when he always wakes up, with a sweat in his brow and a frantic check of his palms, thinking he’ll find blood stained in the pores if he looks closely enough.

The dreams—nightmares?—began when he was tasked to oversee the WWI exhibition for the history department’s annual fundraising event. As much as he enjoys the research, he tried to turn it down—he has a thesis to write, and he’s fallen behind, and he knows of a number of other people who’d be more qualified to run it, the name at the top of the list being Joseph Blake.

“Why can’t you do it?” Will asks Joe when they’re exiting the weekly committee meeting. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re still on about that? It’s been three weeks, we can’t possibly change personnel now,” Joe says, scratching with a pen at something on his clipboard. He’s probably adding another item to his infinitely long to-do list. That seems like something he would do. He’d get it done in a week, too.

Will pulls Joe out of the way of two students carrying instruments down the hallway. “If you’re not gonna pull some strings using your co-chair status, then why am I even bothering to stay friends with you?”

“Funny you should bring up the co-chair thing, because that precisely explains why I can’t handle any of the exhibitions myself, don’t you think?” Joe gives him a pitying smile. “I trust you to get the job done. You always do.”

“I just need someone else around to help in case I get buried in work one day and die,” Will explains desperately, already thinking about the dwindling number of months that are left before his defense. “Come on, at least one other person. You can find one person, right? Don’t you have, like, a spreadsheet?”

Joe taps the pen against his chin as they turn the corner and exit out the front double doors of the building. “Actually, now that you mention it—wait, shit.”

Will halts and turns around to see Joe taking something out of his pocket. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to give these to—” Joe looks up, and there emerges that glint whenever Joe figures something out, or puts two and two together. “You said you wanted a partner, right?”

“Yeah?”

“My brother, Tom, he’s in performing arts, his rehearsal should be starting soon.” Joe checks his watch. “Yeah, in about fifteen minutes. I was supposed to swing by and give these to him, but the meeting ran long and I need to run to Administration to deal with some things. Would you mind taking these to him?”

“Sure, but—” Will hovers out his hand and allows Joe to deposit the items into his palm. Two gold rings, and a tag. Props for a play? He’s not even sure if Tom’s part of the theater school. “What does this have to do with—”

“Tom’s always asking to help out on events, doesn’t matter that he’s not even history,” Joe explains, his torso already turned with two steps put between them. “Get those to him! And ask him!”

“Wait!” Will tries to go after him, but a file of people coming out the door blocks his way. “You arse, I don’t even know what he looks like!”

“Just like me, a little younger!” Joe yells back. “You’ll know when you see him!”

And with that, Will is left standing between the bicycle racks and the trash bin with a new task for the day.

~

Performing arts is on the other side of campus, which is really irritating because he has to pass by the creepy remnants of the old campus and eventually through the quad to get there. The old campus isn’t too bad in broad daylight, but at night, shadows grow long and pronounced, stretching longer than the ruins are tall. The literature students especially like to get drunk and tell stories about seeing ghosts there, but Will knows that’s just a ploy to get tourists to visit.

The quad, on the other hand, is the literal worst to pass through during daylight, because it’s always littered with people taking naps beneath the cherry trees. They usually stay on the grass, but when it’s a nice sunny day like today, they bleed onto the walkways, and nobody ever bothers to chase them away.

Will weaves in and out of the crowd, taking care to not step on anybody, although at one point, he accidentally kicks over someone’s canteen of milk.

“Watch where you’re going, wanker!” the canteen’s owner sneers at him, and Will just rolls his eyes. He hopes the milk goes bad under the sun and sours the guy’s stomach.

He trudges by the Germanics department, a complicated maze of a building that’s infamous for its pest infestation. Then, he steps carefully onto the construction site where they’re hoping to plant a few more trees, though all that’s there right now are craters upon craters dug into the uneven ground. He nearly slips into one or two of them along the way, until he finally reaches the building perched at the other end.

“Excuse me,” Will says to the very bored looking man at the front desk. He looks like he could be a student here. _Leslie_ , is the only thing written on his nametag. “Is there a Tom Blake around?”

“Blake?” Leslie asks, raising his head from staring down at whatever it is he was focused on. A book of some sort? “What the hell do you want with him?”

Is Leslie this curt and impolite to everyone who comes here?

“His brother asked me to give something to him,” Will says, trying not to twitch out of annoyance. “Can you just point me in his direction, please?”

Leslie eyes him before tossing him a pen. “Sign there, then,” he points a thumb down the right hallway, “you’ll find him in Auditorium One.”

“Thanks,” Will mumbles after scribbling out a squiggle, then escapes before Leslie changes his mind and throws him out. Unfortunately, when he tries to open the door to the auditorium, it’s locked, and there’s a note taped to the side of it.

_PRIVATE REHEARSAL IN SESSION. USE BACK ENTRANCE IF NECESSARY._

Great, now he has to figure out which door to poke through before his day can be over. He could ask Leslie, but he’d rather suffer walking through a quad filled with sixteen hundred men than talk to him again.

He makes a beeline towards the nearest exit, then walks around the building, heading uphill in the direction of what looks to be a grass field. When he turns the corner, the sun streams directly into his eyes, and after he blinks twice, allowing his pupils to adjust to the light, he notices someone sleeping below a tree. Will surveys the rest of the area and sees nobody else around, but he does see a door. He tiptoes quietly over and pulls on it, but the hinges don’t budge. He pulls slightly harder, even tries to shake the handle, but—nope, still locked.

Bugger. He sighs, then stares down at the rings and the tag. He should just leave them with Leslie at the front desk, or text Joe saying he wasn’t able to find Tom, or—

“You need a key to get in.”

Will turns, and, as if the name leaps past his thoughts and directly onto his tongue before he finishes forming the shape of the letters, he hears himself say, “Tom?”

With that one syllable, the recurring dreams come flooding back. Soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, cheeks rosier than any blush he’s ever seen. He tastes the cherries in his mouth, feels the sun on his face, a small hand in his, and—

The blood doesn’t come. He looks down at his palms and sees nothing but the two rings and the tag, their gold metal glittering in the sunlight.

“Will?”

He glances up to see Tom peering back with an inquisitive smile hanging off his lips. “Yes?”

Tom sits up straighter and widens his eyes. “Wait. Is that really your name?”

Will nods. “Yes?”

“And you—you know who I am?”

Huh. He does, doesn’t he? In fact, it feels like he’s known Tom all his life.

“Have we met before?” Will asks, before he can think twice about it. It seems like something important, something worth the risk.

“Think I would’ve remembered someone like you,” Tom immediately replies. He offers a sheepish grin, then scratches the back of his head. “I mean—”

“I feel the same,” Will interrupts, then colors. What is with him today? The weight of the rings and tag reminds him why he’s here, so he walks over and holds out his palm before he can blurt out anything else equally embarrassing. “Joe asked me to give these to you.” When Tom’s hand brushes over his, Will tastes the cherries again.

“Thanks,” Tom says, staring down at the items before putting the rings on and the tag around his neck. “I, uh, left them at the flat this morning.”

“Why do you need them?”

“Ah, well…” Tom trails off, flushing a light pink— _cheeks rosier than any blush he’s ever seen_ —before turning those bright blue eyes on him. “They’re old family heirlooms. My mum gave them to me. Told me they’d bring me luck, so now I wear them to all of my rehearsals and performances. You can laugh.”

“Doesn’t sound like something worth laughing at.” Will nods his head towards the locked door. “Is that why you’re out here and not in there?”

“Yeah,” Tom admits. “Superstition, I reckon. Was having a nice nap before your loud arse dragged itself here.”

Will feels a smile pulling at his lips. “Anything I can do to remedy the situation?”

Tom crosses his arms and taps a finger against his chin, seemingly thinking it through. “If you stick around ‘til after rehearsal and buy me a coffee, I’ll forgive you.”

Well, that is a very small price to pay for forgiveness. Will offers his hand, allowing Tom to grab hold of it, then pulls him up.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m happy to report from my director’s chair that Will indeed buys Tom that coffee after rehearsal, they indeed run the exhibition together, and they indeed fall in love.


End file.
